


Oblivisci

by Tea-Diva (Revenant)



Category: Generation Kill, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Angst, Aurors, Flashbacks, Friendship, Hogwarts, M/M, Magic, Memory Loss, Memory Magic, Romance, Suspense, Suspicions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-29
Updated: 2012-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-23 06:55:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/619319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Revenant/pseuds/Tea-Diva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The strength of a spell is magic fused with intent. Bind intent with enough magic and a spell can be cast even without a wand, without a single word being spoken; sometimes without the caster even knowing what he has done. People say all the time that you never forget your first love. Nate vowed that he never would. The question is, why did he?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Salmonellagogo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salmonellagogo/gifts).



> **Disclaimer:** This story is a work of fiction based on the fictionalized characters from the HBO miniseries _Generation Kill_. I do not own the characters or the series, or the book that inspired it; nor am I profiting from this in any way. I intend no disrespect to the real men on whom the book was based. It should go without saying, but I also have absolutely no connection to _Harry Potter_ , movies or books, or to J.K. Rowling in any way.

>   
> **Oblivisci :** _Latin,_ to forget 

Knockturn Alley always feels cold and damp. The kind of cloying, stale chill that Nate associates with ancient crypts filled with the dusty, decaying bones of generations of ancestors, or the Slytherin common room in the dungeons of Hogwarts; places where he knows he is unwelcome, places where he knows he doesn't belong. It's not so much that the place gives him the creeps as every time he has to walk down the steps off of Diagon Alley, color leaching out of the world with every step and the light diminishing around him, he can't help but hear his mother's hesitant voice the very first time he ever saw the shadowed staircase: _"That looks very much like the wrong side of the tracks. Don't ever let me hear about you wandering over there by yourself. Are we clear?"_

"You know," Ray says as they head down the stone steps, the brick walls on either side of them turning rough and crumbled with age and neglect, stained black in places from the dirt and wear of centuries. "I really thought we'd be through with all of this, after Voldemort. You know?"

Nate raises his eyebrows, can't quite keep the amusement off his face. "You became an auror because you thought there wouldn't be any more dark wizards?"

Ray shrugs. "No, I just thought I missed my chance."

"There's always a dark lord rising or falling. Peace comes in short intervals, and it never falls everywhere all at once."

"Geez," Ray sighs. "You're really depressing to work with. Do you know that?" 

The claustrophobic press of the alley speckled with cloaked figures skulking and scuttling about their business feels familiar and comfortable in a way that the atmosphere itself doesn't. Nate prefers his dark magic users looking unkempt, wearing dark robes, hissing and snarling at him the moment they see him. It's the ones that blend that are always the worse trouble. The ones you never see coming that cause the most damage.

"Usual rounds?" Ray asks. Nate discretely checks his wand, 10 ¼'' supple cherry wood with the heartstring of a hippocamp at its core, stowed safely in a holster strapped to his right arm, easily slipped into his palm with a simple gesture. He nods at Ray who says, "Right on, right on," and starts a purposeful stride across the street.

The 'usual rounds' begin at Borgin and Burkes because, they have discovered, news travels especially fast through these narrow, dark alleyways, and the proprietors of the shop have a tendency to take prolonged lunch breaks whenever they have even the faintest sense that aurors might be walking the alley, regardless of the precautions and disguises those aurors might attempt. Not that Nate has yet to receive the slightest bit of useful intel from either Mister Borgin or Mister Burke but protocol mandates every shop be inspected, and he follows his orders.

"Can I be the bad auror this time?" Ray asks as they wend their way through the bustle of the narrow alley.

"We're just talking to them, Ray. We're not interrogating." He focuses his gaze across the street at the faint sound of a chime. The black-painted wooden door of Borgin and Burke's is pulled closed by a figure in dark robes and a black turtleneck. Nate squints because there's something strange about the man, though he can't quite place what it is. 

The man is tall, six foot four by rough estimate, and his posture is perfectly straight, not even the faintest hint of a slouch. What has Nate's attention, however, is the peculiar blurring that happens whenever he tries to get a good look at the other man's face, like he's a mirage appearing across the length of a desert. 

The more Nate stares, the more he starts to see a hazy aura, bright and blinding haloing around the figure.

Distantly, he thinks he hears Ray's voice, "Hey, you okay? Nate?" but Nate is pushing through the lance of pain spearing directly into his head, squinting and focusing despite the hurt and he sees blond hair and coral pink bowed lips and then the bluest eyes are staring back at him and Nate can barely breathe past the ache in his skull, is doubled over and pulling at his hair and can't think. Can't feel anything beyond the agony, intense and sharp like the cruciatus, with his brain at the epicenter of it all.

He staggers back, stumbles against what he assumes is Ray because Nate is fairly certain those are Ray's arms that catch him and keep him from toppling onto the cobblestones. "Shit, shit," Ray's muttering, but it sounds as if it's coming from a long ways away.

"Did you see him?" Nate asks. "Did you see?"

"See who?" Nate can't tell Ray, can't describe the man he saw, the pain overwhelming his ability to speak. Out of the corner of his eye he sees the entrance to Borgin and Burke's. There is no one there. 

The darkness overwhelms him and Nate lets his body go limp.

_____________________________________

When Nate first sees Hogwarts castle, the very first thing he thinks is: _"I'm going to get lost here."_ He sees it from across the water, a constellation of flickering light coming from narrow windows set in a hulking shadowy form that stretches so wide and up and up into the night sky.

"This place is _ginormous_ ," a voice says from behind him. When he turns to look there is a very small, round little boy with dark hair. "No, forget that," the boy says as he comes to a stop beside Nate. "That _dude_ is ginormous."

When he turns to look he sees an incredibly tall figure with a mass of bushy dark curly hair and the biggest, fullest beard he has ever seen, gesturing wildly. "First years this way!" the man beckons, his words slurring easily into each other. "Come on, now, best not to be late for the feast." His tone is friendly enough, even if he is very large. 

Most of the other kids hang back, but Nate steps forward, his head tipping back as he meets the giant man's warm brown eyes. "Which way?" he asks, trying to see in the dark.

The man grins widely, holds up his lantern a little higher and tips his head to the right. "Down that path just there with ye' now." 

Nate nods and thanks the man and starts walking, the other first years falling into step behind him. "Wow," the dark haired boy says as he catches. "This place is freaking awesome. I swear that guy must have been an actual giant."

The accent is difficult to ignore. It's lax and familiar and Nate asks cautiously, "Are you from America?" 

"Darn skippy," the kid says, and then thrusts out his hand. "Ray Person, from Nevada, Missouri. I thought I was going to be the only one here from a real country."

"Nate," Nate says, smiling as he shakes the other boy's hand. "I'm from Maryland." He glances around. "I don't think anyone here would appreciate you slandering their country. Especially as you didn't technically have to come to school at Hogwarts."

"Are you _kidding_?" Ray scoffs with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. "The schools in the States suck hairy balls. The Salem school is so damned conservative they wouldn't even consider extending me an invitation. And Glorthumbol's Academy is so New Age I almost went gay just looking at the acceptance letter." 

If Nate's mom ever heard him talking like Ray he thinks she might actually make him wash his mouth out with soap, even if she probably would agree with the sentiment being expressed. _"You're education is what's important,"_ she had said when they'd sat at the dining room table, his dad thumbing quietly through the various acceptance letters as Nate had swung his legs back and forth more excited at the idea of learning magic than the idea of traveling some place new in order to do that.

The path takes them down to a lake where wooden boats sit, bobbing in the water. Nate notes that there are no paddles anywhere to be seen but each boat has a brightly burning lamp attached to a post on the prow. "Hop in!" the booming voice of the large man calls. Nate can't place the accent, there seems to be so many for such a small country, nuances in pronunciations and tones that he wonders if he'll ever get the hang of it. One girl on the train was practically impossible to understand, though Nate did his absolute best to try.

He follows Ray into a boat and waits, his hands gripping the edges as he thinks about the dark, inky blackness of the water they will be crossing, imagines how cold it must be and how deep. Three other students cram onto the boat, the wood creaking as the craft rocks and suddenly Nate is terrified that they will upturn in the water and he will have to swim across to the opposite bank.

"We won't tip." This declaration is made from a boy with blond hair sitting directly across from Nate; the orange glow of the lamp casts half of the boy's face in shadow. "These boats are spelled to propel themselves across the water, but also to be steady and keep everyone inside. Go ahead," the boy says. "Try to tip it."

Ray eagerly begins throwing his weight around despite Nate's weak "Please don't" that may, in all honesty, have barely been voiced above a whisper because he is more focused on clutching to the gunnels of the boat for dear life, his fingers white. The little wooden vessel rocks left and then right, but nowhere near as drastically as Ray's weight should be moving it. After a moment, Nate eases his grip and starts to relax.

"See?" the boy says with a confident grin. "We'll be fine."

Frowning Nate says, "You're not from around here, either."

The blond boy shakes his head. "California." 

"You're both Yanks?" one of the other boys asks, frowning like it's novel, which Nate supposes it kind of is.

"How many of us are there?" Nate asks. 

There are two schools for magic in the U.S. as far as he knows. He received an invitation to study at both, but he'd picked Hogwarts because it seemed almost ridiculous not to. The Headmistress' letter clearly stated that she believed Nate's magical abilities would be better nurtured at a school with centuries of tradition and excellence behind it, and the prospect of some of the most skilled professors to instruct him had swayed Nate's parents, despite the fact that it was all the way over in Scotland. 

"Only three starting this year, as far as I know," the blond boy answers. "I guess that's us."

Stretching his hand across the distance, he says, "I'm Nate."

Across from him, the corner of the blond boy's mouth quirks up into a wide, toothy, smirking smile. Nate thinks the other boy looks a little funny, something almost elven in his features. Maybe it's just his ears look a bit big. He reaches for Nate's hand, still grinning and says, "I'm Brad."

_____________________________________

"Sweet baby Jesus, I thought you'd kicked it!" Ray declares loudly the moment Nate opens his eyes. "What the hell happened back there?"

Shifting, Nate registers first that there is no residual ache in his body or his head. The world looks and feels as normal as it ever did, and he actually recognizes the room in which he is lying: a typical Auror safe house where he has sought refuge more than once in the past. "You didn't take me to Mungo's?"

"Well, you were still breathing. Plus, I couldn't be sure it wasn't some kind of attack. You kept asking if I saw someone, I thought maybe you spotted whoever cast the curse."

Nate shakes his head. "I don't think…" but he cuts himself off. He's not certain he can explain why he feels so confident that he wasn't hit with a curse. Mostly, it's just a feeling.

What he _does_ know is that there is a memory, flickering tentatively at the corner of his mind like a candle spouting and guttering in a strong wind. A memory that wasn't there before, fragments and flashes of things that felt imprinted on him forever that suddenly just ceased to be. He never missed them until this moment.

"All they have stashed in these fucking cupboards is tea, can you believe it?" Ray grouses as he rifles around. "Oh, and some tinned tomato soup. What's up with that?" 

Cautiously, Nate manages to pull himself upright and he realizes that he's been deposited on one of two narrow cots, a blanket has been pulled over his lower half and his shoes and outer robe are gone. Nate spots them by a chair in the corner.

"I guess it's a step up from sucking on an actual leaf," Ray is saying as he pours some hot water into a chipped mug, which he carries over to Nate. Ray hasn't steeped it long enough, he never gets the timing right but there's enough sugar that Nate almost doesn't mind the watery tinge. It's warm and familiar, taking another sip, Nate feels steadied.

"What spell do you think it was?" Ray's eyes are narrowed and considering, his head cocked to that side in that way it does when Ray is running events over and over in his mind, trying to parse data, figure out what he's missed. Nate realizes that he has managed to genuinely frighten his friend. "I couldn't figure it out based on your reaction. Do you think it's something new?"

Shaking his head, Nate busies himself with his tea and with carefully sorting through the jumble of disorganized memory. "Hey," he says, tries to make it sound casual, like it has no bearing on their situation. "You remember Quidditch?"

Ray scrunches his face, clearly suspicious of the topic change, but after a moment he shrugs and grins. "Uh _yeah_ , I remember Quidditch. It's a fuck-ton of fun. I was pretty much the _greatest_ Beater of all time, and if you make the _totally crude_ joke I know you're currently biting your tongue on, I will _literally_ punch you in the face."

Nate snickers. "You were a very good Beater, Ray," he says, as blandly as possible. Ray still narrows his eyes. "Our best games were always against Slytherin."

Ray shrugs like he doesn't want to admit that Slytherin ever did anything to improve his school years. Then he frowns. "Actually, you know, that's probably true. Their team was pretty good."

A curious little shiver runs along Nate's spine. He finishes his tea and hands it back to Ray, who crosses back to the kettle in order to refill the cup. "I remember," Nate hedges, "you would always try and kill their Seeker. Every game. Every bludger you could get close to you'd send careening straight at him."

The room goes quiet. When Nate glances over Ray's standing with the teapot in one hand, half-tipped forward though not enough to pour, his head tilted to the side and he's frowning. "Ray?" 

Shaking his head, Ray refocuses on his task . "It was a healthy rivalry that has existed, I am told, since the dawn of time. Slytherin versus Gryffindor. If I recall correctly, _Mister Chaser_ , you had _more_ than a few fouls against those sly snakes as well."

"I didn't spend an entire game waiting for an opportunity to get nailed for snitchnipping," Nate points out. "You couldn't even _see_ the snitch, and you _still_ wanted to catch it before Slytherin did."

"Wait wait," Ray says, waving his hand and subsequently the teacup it's holding. "I never snitchnipped."

Sixth year, Gryffindor versus Slytherin, first match of the season. Nate can perfectly remember the triumphant sound Ray made when he leapt off his broom and curled his entire body into a ball in an effort to confine the tiny fluttering golden orb. He also remembers the death-defying dive the Slytherin Seeker spun into all in an effort to prevent Ray from cracking his skull open on the grassy pitch as he plummeted, broomless, toward the ground.

Nate holds Ray's gaze and thinks: "It's not just me." He closes his eyes and refuses to wonder 'why?'

_____________________________________

No one on the second level of the Ministry for Magic is terribly impressed with Nate's insistence that he wasn't cursed. "Look," Gawain Robards says as he frowns. "Go see the Healer, just to be certain. We've got a new dark lord rising and I'm not willing to start taking chances. Right now, we don't know _what_ this bloke's capable of, yeah?"

There's no way that Nate can go against the head of the department so he says, "Yes, sir", and backtracks away from his cubicle to the hallway, turning in the direction of the Healer's office.

Ray gives him a wave in the hall. "I'm heading back out with Cordelia. If we find anything we'll let you know. Robards sending you off to see the wizard?"

"Yeah." Nate tries not to act as putout as he feels. He understands the need for caution, but Robard's sometimes goes to extremes and he encourages others to follow that lead. As a result, the Ministry healers have a bad habit of taking someone off active duty even when there's no sign of anything being wrong with them.

"That's the spirit!" Ray claps a hand on his shoulder. "If you're not in Mungo's by the time my shift ends, I'm descending on your place, and I'm bringing a feast fit for a king."

In the Healer's office Nate is subjected to a battery of tests before Healer Mudgeweather admits that she really can't see anything wrong with him. "A very bad migraine, you say?"

He nods. "It came on suddenly, but I'm fairly certain it wasn't a spell." She checks his outer robes to be certain but all the basic wards are still intact and give no indication of having been disturbed. Cautiously, Nate admits, "It felt a bit like memory modification."

The healer frowns and drops a Rememberall into his palm before he has a chance to continue. They both stare at the small glass sphere, a wisp of greyish smoke materializing but, though they wait longer than necessary, it does not change red. "Well," she says, taking back the ball. "You don't seem to have forgotten anything."

She runs her wand over him again, this time searching for any indication of memory charms but comes up with nothing. Nate isn't surprised.

Mudgeweather declares him in perfect health, but just as Nate is thinking he's in the clear, she continues, "Still, you should probably head home; maybe take a few days off to recuperate. It might have simply been stress-related." As Nate slips back into his robes, she turns to her desk jotting down a few notes in his file.

Clearing his throat, Nate hesitates. "Do memory charms ever break?" 

"Hm?" she looks up from a notation she's making and then blinks. "Memory charms? No, they don't break. They don't 'wear out' at all, really. Sometimes a witch or wizard very skilled in the mental arts is able to remember bits and pieces of whatever was lost, but the charm itself only gains in strength the longer it is in place. Complete reversals are almost always impossible, and I have never heard of a charm simply releasing of its own accord. If it did, we'd be in a bit of hot water with the muggles, don't you think?"

_____________________________________

By the time Nate walks into his Defense Against the Dark Arts combined class he has heard all the stories about Slytherin House, and there are enough to form a suitable bias, which many of his classmates have done. Personally, Nate has had no opportunity to interact with any Slytherins. From distant observation he has ascertained that they mostly keep to themselves, more so than Ravenclaws, and that they are generally a quiet bunch.

Professor Belleficent has arranged the classroom into rows of two desks and the first thing she does at the start of class is assign seating so every Gryffindor is sitting beside a Slytherin. "Remember where you are sitting," she tells her class. "This will be your place for the entirety of the year, and I _will not_ tolerate grumbling or complaints. If you have a difficulty with your seatmate we will settle it with a good old fashioned Wizard's duel."

"She doesn't do anything in halves, does she?" Nate whispers to himself, then glances at his new Defense partner. He ends up grinning. "Hey, it's you!"

"Me?" the other boy wonders. He blinks, and then smiles that same smile from the boat. "Me," Brad says, no longer a question. 

"How have you been finding it?" Nate whispers, conspiratorially. So far, Ray has been enthusiastic about absolutely every aspect of Hogwarts. The rest of the Gryffindor first years are more than a little overwhelmed, but whenever Nate tries to broach the subject they shrug it off like the moving staircases, announcements regarding the possibility of grizzly and prolonged deaths should they wander out of bounds, and ghosts that slip through walls at unexpected and sometimes entirely inopportune times is exactly what they were expecting and nothing at all to be unsettled by. "Doesn't it freak you out?" he had asked one of his housemates, who had turned up the nose and said only, "I'm a _Gryffindor_ ".

"It certainly keeps me on my toes," Brad says. There's a pleased glint in his eye, like the chance to be put to the test like this is something he's been anticipating for a long time. Nate grins because for all that he keeps being perpetually surprised by just about everything, he feels precisely the same. "I've been waiting for this class, though. I think it will be my favorite."

In Transfiguration Nate had made a paperweight transform into an ornate music box that played Strauss' Blue Danube waltz while a little frog and rabbit dressed in fancy clothes danced. It took him only three tries and he had never been so happy or so proud in his entire life, but right then he answers entirely honestly and says, "Me too."

_____________________________________

Nate hands over Healer Mudgeweather's report to Robard and tries as much as possible to emphasize the part where she wrote: "In perfect health". All Robard can see, however, is her recommendation that Nate take some time off. "No unnecessary chances, Fick. Have a bit of a holiday. A few days can't hurt."

No one tells Nate that he has to go home and sleep, just that he shouldn't be at work, so he doesn't feel as if he is breaking any rules when he apparates to the mouth of Knockturn Alley and casts a modified Glamour spell that he hopes will be strong enough to fool Ray if they happen to cross paths. Glamour spells are never perfect, and are especially weak to people quite familiar with the person attempting to modify their appearance. It's what Nate suspects is responsible for the blurring effect he had noticed on the wizard earlier that morning, though he cannot actually be certain. The fact that Ray will likely assume that Nate has gone home, if not been sent to Saint Mungo's, will work to his advantage, so long as they don't end up in the same place at the same time. 

Appearance suitably altered, Nate rolls his shoulders back, lengthens his stride and tips his chin up, jutting his elbows out from his sides just slightly so that he looks both arrogant and purposeful, and very unlike his usual self. He walks directly into Borgin and Burke's without hesitation and manages an appropriate lilting accent as he inquires of Mister Borgin the identity of a patron who would have been around just that morning.

Mister Borgin scrutinizes him closely, beady eyes taking in Nate's appearance before he says, snidely, "We have, I am sure you understand, _many_ patrons, sir." 

Nate's fairly certain the man is not only fully aware of the Glamour, but also certain that it is a certified auror lurking beneath the spell. Dark Wizards, even the ones flirting with the fine line, tend to have all sorts of tricks up their sleeves that Nate feels simultaneously envious of and angry at all at once. Sometimes the letter of the law can be terribly confining.

"You would have recognized him," he pushes, though he isn't sure why. It is an assumption based on the seemingly casual air about the man in that moment when Nate had spotted him. Like he was used to traversing the darkened alley, and familiar with this shop in particular. "Also, he wouldn't have looked like what he looked like, if you understand my meaning."

"Yes," Mister Borgin drawls. "We never do, do we?" he casts a pointed stare at Nate, but then Mister Burke comes out from behind a curtain in the back and Mister Borgin flashes crooked yellowed teeth in a sinister parody of a helpful smile and says, "This gentleman's making inquiries about a customer that might have been by in the morning."

"Not 'might have'," Nate corrects. "He was _definitely_ by. The only question is whether you recall him." He knows it's a mistake the moment it's out of his mouth, because he knows never to give either of these men even an inch lest they abscond with a mile.

"We _don't_ ," Mister Burke says sharply. "Remember anyone coming by this morning. It's been a _very_ busy day, I'm _sure_ you can appreciate that."

Nate looks very long and very hard directly into Mister Burke's steady eyes, using all his ability with legilimency to his advantage. An image coalesces in his mind, a tall man in dark robes with long black hair and a square face, with the faint haloing Nate himself remembers seeing around the man on the front step. Then Mister Burke occludes his mind and sends an absolutely poisonous look in Nate's direction. "I think you should leave now, Mister...?"

"Thank-you for your help, _gentlemen_ ," Nate replies, not offering his own name. He is careful to speak with enough silken sarcasm that the two other men snap-to, realizing that they have indeed given him something to go on, whether they had wanted to or not. He turns on his foot and heads back out to the street.

He has managed to ascertain that Mister Borgin and Mister Burke are conniving, secretive liars, which is something he already knew. Nate has also managed to confirm that the man he saw on the front steps of the shop was not a hallucination. He has not, however, managed to figure out what he should do next.

Glancing back to the shop window Nate thinks about the network of communication that exists in this dodgy part of the district and pointedly turns back toward Diagon Alley. It is a long shot, but Nate has very few options available to him, so he orders a sizable ice cream sundae at Florean Fortescue's and settles into a seat on their outdoor patio, prepared to wait the rest of the day if he has to. 

He has finished three of the five heaping scoops when a throat is pointedly cleared by someone standing over his table. When Nate looks up, it is into a pair of warm brown eyes that, for all the appearance of open friendliness, look nonetheless assessing. 

"'Sup, dawg," the man says, which is not a greeting Nate has ever encountered in the Wizarding world. It catches him off guard, which, he thinks, is precisely the point of it. "Mind if I sit?" The man drops into the chair opposite him without waiting for permission. "So, I got a question for you."

"I imagine you do." Nate spoons another bit of ice cream up and feels mildly pleased with himself when his comment successfully breaks the stranger's stride.

"Yeah," the man says, his eyes narrowing. "Here it is: what were you doing, interrogating the proprietors at Borgin and Burke's?"

Another mouthful of ice cream that Nate takes his time swallowing before he asks, "Friends of yours?"

"Naw, man. It's not like that." He rests one arm on the table, leaning forward so he is almost though not quite intruding on Nate's personal space. "Just, a man can get to wondering if someone's maybe looking for trouble."

With only a few jumbled memories to go on, Nate is aware that he is working at a terrible disadvantage. He trusts his instincts absolutely, and his instincts tell him that he didn't just happen to forget, something made him forget, which means he is now in possession of memories someone doesn't want him to have. He can't just blurt out to a stranger that he's looking for a friend, or someone who used to be a friend.

Instead, Nate shrugs carelessly and says, "In my experience, no one entering Knockturn Alley does so because they are not interested in trouble." This gets him a grin. "I'm curious though," he continues. "I don't see how any of this is your business."

"My business is whatever I say it is." They stare at each other, neither one of them blinking until, finally, the stranger seems to capitulate. "When you ask questions about a friend of mine, that's my business. If it's trouble you're looking for, it's here and it's waiting for you."

There is no cocky arrogance in the man's tone. He's sitting casually in his chair, easy as you please. Nate knows that the wizard's wand is currently in a holster at his hip, that he can likely access it quickly and efficiently, but from the flicker of magical energy that Nate can feel tingling at the corner of his senses he also knows that this man has some ability with wandless magic, which means that Nate very possibly is one misstep away from an open wizard's duel in the middle of a busy street.

"It's not trouble I was looking for," he says. "Your friend reminded me of someone, that's all."

"Old school friend?" the wizard asks, too keenly. _Far_ too keenly to be casual. 

Nate keeps his breathing steady and thinks that the straight truth might very well get him killed. He can't lie, though, not when he's this close to someone who clearly knows in a way that Nate used to know. In a way that Ray knew, once, but doesn't anymore. 

"A lover, actually," Nate flicks his gaze back to chocolate brown eyes but there is no opportunity to pry into the man's memories. The other wizard is occluding so perfectly that it takes Nate a moment to realize he's sifting through aimless thoughts and false memories.

The wizard laughs. "Old lover, ah. I know how _that_ is." The tension has entirely leached from the man's body. "Well, I wish you luck with that then, dawg. See you around."

"If we do see each other again, should I pretend we've never met before?" 

"Technically we haven't 'met'," the other wizard points out as he stands from the table. Then he grins, holding out his hands like they're suddenly friends. "Name's Tony."

"I'm…"

"Nate," Tony says, cutting him off. He shakes his head. "Man, you aurors. You make it so damned easy."

Tony disappears before Nate can ask what exactly it was that he made easy, how the man knew his name and could see past the Glamour he had left in place enough to recognize him. His stomach is twisting in knots and he pitches the rest of his sundae away. It's impossible to tell if that conversation went well or not. If Tony's strange demeanor is confirmation of Nate's concerns or proof against it.

He thinks about all the stories he ever heard of Slytherin House, thinks about the bias that exists to this day, of how the Ministry looks more closely at applicants who were sorted there based solely on the prejudice that all Slytherins have an inclination toward the dark arts. Nate had thought it was a ridiculous bias but suddenly he wonders if he has simply been blind. Avoiding seeing something he did not want to see. 

Something that might have been there all along, right from the start.

_____________________________________

The only reason he waits outside is because Ray lost a bet that Gryffindor would trounce Slytherin at Thursday's game and the punishment for losing was no candy for the rest of term. Admittedly, Nate was more than a little relieved that Ray lost but since he knows his friend's abilities when it comes to stealth, Nate added an additional rule: Ray is not allowed inside Honeydukes for the rest of term.

So he's standing outside in the snow listening to Ray curse and mutter at the unfairness of life, insisting that Slytherin probably cheated so their Quidditch victory shouldn't count, when Peter Runcible comes over and accuses Nate of being a mudblood. He says a few other nasty things first, all of which Nate has heard before, but he saves the best for last.

Technically speaking it's true. It's been three generations since the Fick family produced anyone with any magical ability but that doesn't make the term any less offensive or insulting. Nate's wand is in his hand in a flash and it is somewhat gratifying to see that Ray is equally ready though, considering his situation is similar to Nate's own, perhaps he is not simply defending a friend.

Before the argument can continue, however, there is the happy jingling as the bells above Honeydukes chime and the door swishes closed. "Is there a problem here?" a familiar voice asks, and Nate stands a little straighter. Three against one. Those odds are greatly in their favor, especially considering the magical competency of the three.

"Not with _you_ , Colbert," Runcible says. "With these Gryffindorks. Muggle-loving _mudbloods_ , the lot of 'em."

Nate expects an argument of some kind, some witty rejoinder that will undoubtedly take Runcible the better part of a week to figure out. Instead what he hears is, "Caput mortuum," and then Runcible staggers back as if he's been pushed, blinking as he scratches his head and looks greatly befuddled by the world as a whole. After a second, he turns on his heel and toddles off along the road.

Nate is, of course, perfectly aware of the direct translation of the words: Dead head. He is not, however, familiar with those words in relation to any sort of spell, which is clearly what the utterance was if Runcible's reaction is anything to go by. "Did you make that up?" he asks, turning around to face his friend.

Brad flashes him a pleased grin in answer, slipping his wand casually back into the pocket of his robes. 

"That was bloody fucking _incredible_!" Ray says, throwing an arm around Brad's shoulders. They all frown at Runcible, who actually appears to be drooling on himself. "Do you think anyone will notice a difference?"

"How long will the spell last?" Nate wonders as they watch the boy's meandering.

It lasts until halfway through Monday classes, and the only reason it breaks at all is because professor Belleficent can recognize a hex when she sees one. 

Nate gets called to the headmistress' office, and it's a little bit of a relief to see that he's not alone there. "Gentlemen, I am very disappointed. In _all three_ of you."

"Ma'am." Nate bows his head and tries to look suitably chastened as the headmistress glares at him disapprovingly. "We weren't picking on Runcible. It was the other way around."

"Yeah," Ray jumps in. "He called Nate and I _mudbloods_!" 

"We only pulled our wands to defend ourselves if the situation escalated," Nate continues blithely. "We didn't intend to hex Peter. We just wanted…"

" _Nevertheless_ ," Headmistress McGonagall interrupts. "It was _three against one_ , and hex him you did." Her lips purse as she eyes them over her glasses. "I am, however, fully aware of Mister Runcible's prejudices. Is this what happened, Mister Colbert?"

Brad nods once, sharply, his hands clasped behind his back. "Yes ma'am. Ray and Nate were merely defending themselves, that's the only reason their wands were drawn. I'm the one who cast the hex. I didn't know it was a real spell."

"That's because it isn't," the headmistress huffs. "Though I suppose it is now." She taps her fingers idly on the surface of her desk. "Mister Colbert, you are an _incredibly_ gifted young wizard, but you must exercise caution and above all, _prudence_ with your magic, or your abilities will only lead you astray."

Ray snickers as they leave the Headmistress' office. "I can't believe she gave you the 'with great power comes great responsibility speech'!" 

"I can't believe I get _detention_ and Runcible gets to nap in the hospital wing," Brad mutters.

Nate raises his eyebrows. "To be fair, he _did_ spend three days dribbling on himself, completely incapable of forming words beyond one syllable."

"Explain to me how that's different from any other day for him?" Ray asks. "Anyway," he throws an arm around Brad's shoulders. "Thanks for the awesome defense. Not that Nate and I were helpless or anything, you know, but still."

Curious, Nate glances at Brad from the corner of his eyes. "Did you make up that spell and cast it on Peter without testing it first to see what it could do?"

"I knew what it would do," Brad says with a shrug.

"No you didn't. How could you, unless you tested the spell properly? What if it couldn't be reversed?"

Brad meets his gaze. "Runcible is already a bigoted, sister-fucking, inbred, slack-jawed, dark lord in the making. If the spell was permanent, how could that really be a bad thing?"

Nate can tell Brad means it as a joke but it only makes him wonder.

_____________________________________

Around the office, out on patrol or at the pub, or hanging out at Nate's apartment or Ray's, Nate can't stop asking questions. What does Ray remember about Quidditch? Defense class? Care of Magical Creatures? What was the worst punishment he ever had at school and what had he been doing to earn it?

Ray shrugs it all off, he has answers for everything but never the answers that Nate expects. Never the one's Nate _knows_ are true. Years of friendship make some things into casual certainties but not, apparently, if your memory has been grossly modified. He tries to recall how _he_ might have answered any of these questions before that moment in Knockturn Alley, but he never can. The subtle perfection of memory modification is this: how can you miss something you don't even remember? 

The answer is simple: you can't, and Nate certainly hadn't.

It's a truth that makes him angry; at himself, at whoever took his memories, at everyone who doesn't remember what they should. He tips his chair back in his cubicle and looks across to where Ray is sitting, the cubicle on Nate's right. Ray's cubicle. Except that it isn't Ray's at all. 

"Who was your best friend at school?" Nate asks.

Ray glances up from his papers. "Man, you haven’t finished with all this reminiscing and shit? I dunno. You, I guess."

"You _guess_?" Nate pushes. "You don't _know_?"

"Well…" Ray starts out, turning and smiling like he's about to make a joke and then suddenly his expression pinches, like he's just realized that he had said 'I guess' because he actually _hadn't_ been certain. "I…"

"Nate!" Robards calls. Nate curses under his breath because Ray shakes his head and the moment is lost. When he glances at his boss the man is standing by the door waving him over.

"What have you done this time, I wonder," Ray teases.

Rolling his eyes, Nate gets up. There is a woman with Robards, standing outside the door. She is average height, not exceptionally beautiful but not unattractive. Her hands are petite but when she shakes Nate's hand her grip is strong. Robards introduces her as Amalthea Pelleas from the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad. Nate is presented with a badge that supports the claim, but there is something in the casual way Amalthea flips her hair over her shoulder that makes him suspicious. The thing is, Aurors receive a lot of training in concealment and disguise, and not all of it pertains to appropriate methods of shifting one's own appearance. Nate's pretty good at spotting concealments as well.

"What's this regarding, sir?" he asks Robards.

The man seems perfectly unaware of any subterfuge. Nate wonders if it's because he has no reason to suspect anything untoward. "Healer Mudgeweather noted that you felt a bit like your episode might have been related to memory modification of some sort."

Nate raises his eyebrows. "No unnecessary risks?"

Robards nods, rocks back and forth on his feet and says, "Precisely so."

"I'm a specialist," Amalthea says confidently. "The Obliviator in my squad."

"Just double-checking. Leave you two to sort it out, then," Robards says. "Probably nothing at all, you know, but no use taking chances when you're one of our best, Fick." He claps a hand on Nate's arm, nods once more, and then turns on his heel.

Nate follows Amalthea as far as the entrance to the Healers' office, and then halts. "You make a very striking witch, Tony."

Amalthea stops abruptly, then flashes him a coy grin. "'Sup, dawg," Tony says, his voice still notably feminine and soft. The disguise is absolutely perfect, which Nate finds worrying.

Tony is standing inside the Ministry with a disguise and paperwork forged well enough to fool the head of the Department of Aurors. There are security checkpoints that must be crossed to reach this level, not to mention that a call would have been placed to verify Miss Amalthea Pelleas' claim to be an employee of the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad because Robards is deadly serious when he says that he does not believe in taking unnecessary risks.

"I'm not going in there with you." Nate jerks his head toward the empty office.

"Frightened?" Tony asks, smirking

"Pragmatic."

Tony, in his disguise as Amalthea, raises a slender eyebrow. "What if I told you it was mandated by the Minister himself?"

Nate snorts. "What, Shacklebolt specifically told you to disguise yourself as a woman, pose as an Obliviator and get me alone in that office? To what end?"

"Won't know until you try."

"Well then I won't ever know," Nate says, and backs up a step.

"It's standard procedure," Tony says, his flippant demeanor vanishing as he faces Nate head on. "If what I suspect is true then you should know, you're risking _a lot_ of lives by running away from me like a scared little bitch."

Nate jerks his chin up. "Give me one good reason why I should believe you." When Tony remains silent, Nate huffs. "You're going to modify my memories anyway, am I right? What does it matter what you tell me?"

"Put your wand away, you stupid motherfucker," Tony hisses. He steps forward, his purple robes swishing. "I'm not gonna modify a single fucking thing that doesn't need to be. You _have_ to tell me what you remember, dawg."

"How can I possibly know what it is you want me to forget?" Tony doesn't look as if he has an appropriate answer, so Nate takes another backward step, eases around the corner and then full-out sprints for the elevator.

It is entirely overdramatic because the elevator is open and waiting for him, and Tony has already proven that he is unwilling to cause a scene inside the Ministry. The moment the doors close Nate flashes a sheepish look at the other occupants of the elevator. "Late for a meeting. Thanks for holding the lift."

He receives some understanding smiles in return, and when he steps off and marches toward the bank of floos he is relieved to see not a single sign of Miss Amalthea Pelleas, or Tony. He stoops slightly as he steps into the fireplace, tosses down a handful of floo powder and escapes quickly and directly to his very heavily warded apartment where he turns around and promptly apparates, appearing just outside of Gringotts Bank.

Nate has no idea where it is he is heading. He picks a direction and he walks, his eyes scanning for any sign of Tony or someone in disguise who is paying him too much attention. Outside of a few subtle glamours to hide warts, and one to make a wizard's Romanesque nose appear small and snub, there is no sign of anyone who might have something to hide.

His mind is racing, concern about returning to work now that he knows how easily the Auror office can be infiltrated derailing when he wonders how Tony managed to infiltrate it at all. There is no reason why Nate's memories should matter to anyone. No reason why one wizard should matter so much that he needs to be removed completely from existence, taken away from anyone who ever knew him.

All Nate has managed to come up with is that maybe his friend is in trouble. Wizard Protection, however, does not work like this. Not with such extensive memory modifications, that's unheard of. The only other option Nate can think of is the one thing he keeps shying away from.

He had entered Knockturn Alley looking for information regarding a dark wizard already rising in notoriety, well on the way to becoming the next Dark Lord. Nate remembers studying Tom Marvolo Riddle and writing a paper in his seventh year about how it was memory that led to the Dark Lord's undoing. If no one had remembered his inquiries into the Horcruxes or his fascination with the number seven; if no one had remembered the Elder Wand or the Deathly Hallows; if no one had remembered the curiously 'off' little boy who had always been fascinated with things that he shouldn't have been.

If they hadn't _remembered_ …

He collides with something hard but strangely yielding, his hands coming up to prevent himself from falling over, and there are hands that catch on his elbows and keep him upright. When Nate looks up it is into impossibly bright blue eyes and he almost laughs.

For all his searching, it turns out all he had to do was take a walk down Diagon Alley and literally run right into what he is looking for.

"I apologize," the other wizard says. "Are you alright?"

Nate is still trying to swallow back his semi-hysterical laughter. They are standing in front of Slug and Jiggers Apothecary shop. There is a small black bag hanging from the other man's wrist, ornate silver script bearing the name of the shop. Nate thinks: "You always preferred to make your own potions…"

"I'm fine," he says. "Sorry. I wasn't looking where I was going."

"That's alright. There is every possibility that I was similarly distracted."

It isn’t until the other wizard steps back that Nate realizes his fingers are gripping the man's sleeve. Blue eyes shift down; observe Nate's pale skin against the dark fabric of the robe. "Are you alright?" Nate asks, the lump in his throat making the inane question sound heavy with meaning. He forces his fingers open, releases the clutch of fabric.

"I…" blue eyes blink as they hold Nate's gaze. "Do I know you?"

Nate sucks in a steadying breath, and then lies, "No, I don't think we've ever met before. I must have one of those faces."

Those familiar coral lips quirk upward. "Right. That must be it." Then he holds out his hand. "Brad Colbert."

Nate shakes it, offers his own name in return and then adds, "I was on my way to the Leaky Cauldron. If you have nowhere pressing to be I'll buy you lunch, to apologize for my lack of observation."

Brad smirks. "The collision was mutual."

"Mutually beneficial," Nate says. In a softer voice, he adds, "Please." He remembers that Brad never had been able to resist that tone. It's nice to know that some things, at least, never change.

_____________________________________

Most of Nate's housemates joke and call them 'the three musketeers'. The rest call them an anomaly.

"Whatcha want to be friends with a Slytherin for?" one of Nate's year mates asks him. "Specially the pureblooded ones. They get raised with all sorts of bogus ideas in their heads."

"What about the idea that all Slytherins are evil?" Nate says. "Is _that_ bogus?"

"I'm not picking a fight," the boy defends. "I'm just saying: be careful. You can't trust snakes. Pretty sure there's a story about that somewhere."

Nate rolls his eyes.

When he invites Brad to the House Party to celebrate Gryffindor winning the Quidditch cup, Brad says, "No." He refuses to elaborate.

Nate refuses to be put off. "Look," he says. "If it's because you're sore about losing, I don't think that's very fair. We're not even old enough to play on the teams; I don't think you should take who wins and who loses personally if you weren't even involved in the victory. I'm certain Slytherin will do better next year."

"It's not that," Brad shrugs. "I appreciate the offer, but I'm certain your housemates don't want me there."

"How can you know that? Most of my housemates haven't even _met_ you. How can they have an opinion? Besides, _Ray's_ my housemate and I'm pretty sure that if you don't come, he'll track you down and drag you over anyway."

Brad narrows his eyes. Nate has never seen his friend get angry, but he thinks right then that if he keeps pushing, he might just find out what that's like. "Don't pretend to be naïve. It doesn't suit you."

Nate jerks his chin up. "I know a bunch of Ravenclaws who are coming. There's a handful of Hufflepuffs who have been invited. Why shouldn't I invite my friend, who happens to be in Slytherin?"

"You _know_ why."

Nate does, indeed, know why. He refuses to be swayed by an age-old prejudice. Logic will not be enough to sway Brad, apparently, that much he can already tell. Instead, Nate sighs heavily and says, "I'm already considered weird because I hang out with you and Ray. Ray's going to eat too much sugar and you know how he gets. And then it will just be me sitting there by myself."

Brad knows that Nate has other friends. Perfectly good friends who enjoy talking and spending time with him. They are not, however, as close as Brad and Ray and Nate are. They're not _best_ friends.

Nate says, "Please," and knows he's won when Brad sighs.

"We're not going to hear the end of this for weeks. I'm pretty certain this will be an historical first."

Nate grins and pulls his friend into a one-armed hug. "Thanks."


	2. Chapter 2

It starts with lunch. Or really, it starts with the wide-eyed glance that Brad flashes at him when they reach for the bill at the same time, their hands brushing. Nate doesn't shy away from the touch and he thinks that's why Brad gives him that look. Nate never could resist that look. 

Or Brad's smile.

So, it starts with lunch but it doesn't end there. Nate still isn't sure who Brad is anymore but he remembers who Brad was, and that's a secret he guards jealously. They're strangers who become friends who become lovers, nothing original. Nothing exceptional. Nothing out of the ordinary. 

Except for those years of history between them that they never mention.

At first, Nate wonders if Brad remembers that they've been friends since they were eleven years old. Wonders if the other wizard ever thinks about their shared detentions in the Dark Forest, Quidditch matches, and pranks that were weeks in the making. 

The more time they spend together the more Nate becomes certain that Brad remembers all of it. That Brad thinks _Nate_ has no recollection of their shared past.

Brad talks about school but never gives a name, offering enough detail for Nate to believe he attended Durmstrang without ever stating so explicitly. He never mentions family, though that may simply be because his parents have been dead since their sixth year. Nate remembers that Brad never talked about his family after their death, and he never left the school on holidays unless Nate or Ray invited him.

As for his work, Brad doesn't say anything specifically. He gives little, off-hand hints that don't add to anything meaningful. Nate is a skilled enough interrogator to know when he is being led around by the nose but not skilled enough to pin Brad down and get a direct answer.

Some days, he feels like a double agent. He's an auror and he loves his work, it's his job to bring down dark witches and wizards, bring them to justice. It's challenging and invigorating and Nate's proud to do it, but he can't bring Brad in.

There's no solid proof, nothing but missing memories and too many secrets. Sometimes he considers veritaserum, but he won't take that risk. If he's wrong, and he hopes that he is, then he refuses to damage whatever they are building here. This is something that's been thirteen years in the making. They've avoided it long enough; it feels good to finally give in.

He presses Brad down into the soft sheets and takes his fill. Allows his hands to wander, his mouth devouring every inch of the body beneath him, so familiar and so changed. He holds Brad down and Brad lets him. He says 'please' and Brad spreads his legs and says 'yes' and Nate thinks this is the start of something. Something that should have started years ago. Could have started.

They lie beside each other, tangled in the sheets and each other, sharing breath and aimless touches. Nate asks, "If you could change one thing in the entire world, what would it be?"

There's something secret in Brad's expression, something far away and nostalgic. "Maybe a different career choice." That's all he says. 

Nate wants to ask, "Which choice? Which career?" Instead, he wraps a hand around Brad's upper arm and draws him into a kiss.

_____________________________________

They are three of the five selected to join the Auror trainee program that year. Out three hundred applicants, they are three of five who pass the many and varied tests the Ministry runs them through, which means that Ray's strut as he walks through the halls of the Ministry is understandable, even if it's not entirely forgivable.

"I can't believe he made it into this program," Brad mutters.

"He's _your_ friend," Nate says, snickering as Ray actually bows at a witch scribbling in a notepad as she rushes toward the floos.

Deftly, Brad sidesteps a wizard muttering to himself and fiddling with an abacus. He navigates the bustling crowds on the main floor of the Ministry like he's been coming there for years. As if it's not their first day. "Fuck that. I only met him because _you_ introduced us."

"Are you bitches gossiping about your buddy Ray Ray?" Ray calls as he joins them.

Brad smiles an overly polite smile to a witch standing close to the elevator controls. "Floor two, please," he says, then glances pointedly at Ray and drops his voice, "I don't actually know him."

"Why you gotta be like that, baby?" Ray asks as he wraps an arm around Brad's shoulders and plants a big smacking kiss on Brad's left cheek. "Don't play hard-to-get with me, sugarplum, your Ray-Ray has your back. You know it." Ray pauses then grins a particularly lecherous little smile as Brad attempts to liberate himself from his friend's arms while simultaneously attempting to wipe his cheek clean of the violation. "Get it? Got your _back_. Yeah, you _know_ I do."

"Jesus, Ray." Nate not even the subject of Ray's latest attack but he's aware that he's blushing bright red in sympathy. He's also trying to stifle his laughter. Half mortified, half amused, that's pretty much the way everyone always feels around Ray Person. 

"Gentlemen," a deep, resonant voice says as the lift doors open. A dark skinned man in a purple robe pushes up from the back of the elevator and nods at them as the lift doors close.

"Mother _fucker_ ," Brad gasps.

Nate rubs a hand over his face. "That was the Minister." 

"You think he heard me?" Of course Ray waits until after the damage is done to switch to his indoor voice.

"Ray," Brad sighs, rolling his eyes skyward. " _Everyone_ heard you. Unfortunately, you don't come with volume controls."

"Well, _geez_." Ray throws his hands in the air. "I'm _sorry_. But it could have been worse. At least our fucking _boss_ didn't hear us!"

"Technically speaking, but the Minister _is_ our boss," Nate points out. There's another chime as the elevator doors open. He glances at the numbers and shifts toward the door. 

"Better hurry along. Wouldn't want to be late on your first day," says a particularly wry voice. 

Nate releases a very long sigh. "Yes, thank-you Auror Robards."

"Fuck, fuck!" Ray says. "That was like, our _actual_ boss, wasn't it? _Fuck_!" 

"We haven't even made it to the actual training room yet, and already you've made an impression," Brad says.

"Okay, okay, this is still good, though, because this is fucking merry old England and they're all about the gay, am I right? No DADT across the pond. Also, I know this country is pretty messed up, but they can't possibly be so backward that they don't realize it was a fucking _joke_ , right?"

"Keep swearing and insulting their country," Brad says. "I'm sure that will help smooth things over."

"Fuck you, Brad!" Ray cries after Brad's retreating back. "They didn't have to accept me into their posh little program, did they? You know what that means? They fucking _love_ me!"

_____________________________________

Before Nate was partnered with Ray, he was partnered with Brad.

All three of them joined the auror program directly after graduating from Hogwarts. Though Nate consults the records, every possible record he can possibly consult, he finds no indication that Brad Colbert ever even existed. One afternoon he makes an oblique mention of Brad as he speaks to Robards. A casual, off-hand reference to the time when Brad sat in the cubicle beside Nate's and went out on patrols and had his back.

"I don't follow," Robards says. "Person's your partner." 

Nate holds the man's gaze long enough to realize that Robards either genuinely has no recollection of Brad, or has absolutely no intention of revealing that he ever knew the man. He wonders if it's fear keeping the man silent, or a spell. He isn't sure which one he's hoping for these days.

"What do you miss most about school?" he asks Ray.

"The astronomy tower."

The answer makes Nate laugh. "You never kissed anyone in the Astronomy Tower."

"No," Ray agrees. "But I like the idea that I _could_ have, if I wanted."

Ray is happy and grinning and laughing. Nate knows that two months ago he had been just as happy. Just as oblivious. He isn't anymore. "Don't you ever feel like you're missing something? Something important?"

Pointedly, Ray pats down his own chest, grabs his crotch, eyeballs his own feet and hands. "Nope," he says with a shrug.

That afternoon there is an attack in Diagon Alley. Slug and Jiggers explodes in a spectacle of cold blue flame, shattered glass and debris. A shop clerk staggers into the street screaming. It takes a moment for Nate to realize the man is burning with Gubraithian fire. No one knows what to do to help him. 

The spell is supposed to be harmless. It's only ever been used on objects and Nate didn't even know it was possible to make a _person_ burn forever.

They do what they can to quell the shop flames and restore order, the shop clerk is sent to Mungo's. When he is taken away there's a palpable relief in the streets at the quiet that falls, now that the clerk's screams are no longer resounding off the brick walls. 

As Nate stands casting water charms at the guttering flames he thinks he sees Brad watching from across the way but then the figure pulls the hood of his robes up and Nate can't be certain. He half convinces himself that it was a trick of the light, mistaken identity. But only half.

That night Brad floos directly into Nate's apartment because three weeks ago Nate keyed his own wards to accept him. Brad drops his outer robe on the back of a chair and smiles when he pokes his head into the second bedroom that Nate's converted into an office "Hey," he says. "Sorry I'm late. Busy day." 

They eat dinner and have sex on the couch and again on the bed, and when Nate wakes up the next morning Brad's made coffee and is cooking bacon and eggs. Nate catches him proffering a strip of bacon to Nate's owl, Archimedes, who has always been a surly little beast to Nate but seems to adore Brad. "Is that the secret to your relationship, then?"

Brad smirks. "You caught me." 

It's so normal. So easy.

But all the while Nate keeps wondering about the Gubraithian fire, can't help remembering the careless way Brad would sometimes create new spells and use them without any tests or precautions, casting on instinct and intuition. Like if the occasion called for a spell to be used then whatever consequences might arise would be deserved.

He finds himself telling Brad about the store clerk. About the shrill agony in the man's screams and the way that Nate himself hadn't known how to begin cancelling the spell. "I didn't know you could use Gubraithian fire on a person. It shouldn't work, should it? How can a person burn forever?"

"The same way an object can burn forever," Brad says, so casually. Far too casually. "The spell is two-fold. One part creates the fire; the other creates the constancy, preserves the focus of the spell so that it can continue to burn. It's strange though, that it caused pain. I would have thought the constancy portion of the spell functioned by creating an impervious barrier, but that would have shielded the store clerk from feeling anything outside of a certain amount of surprise if he caught sight of his own reflection." 

Brad sips his coffee, frowning as he considers. "Either the spell was modified to specifically cause pain, or else it doesn't work the way I thought it did."

Nate's hands are shaking. The answer is clinical. Logical. He wants to ask, _"Why have you been thinking so much about this?"_ but he doesn't. Instead he says, "Hypothetically speaking, what would you do if you were dating Tom Riddle, and then one day realized that Tom Riddle and Voldemort were one and the same?"

Brad sets his fork down on his plate and then, purposefully, he lifts his eyes until he's staring directly at Nate. "Wouldn't the first thing you do be to break up with him?"

Releasing a shuddery breath, Nate admits, "I don't know." He thinks his answer probably shouldn't change based on whether or not it's love, but he'd be lying if he said it didn't matter.

_____________________________________

It's strange that it doesn't occur to him until he's standing in the middle of a garden watching a stone building crumble and burn. Most people realize their mortality much sooner, especially when they're subjected to rigorous and extensive auror training.

It's not that Nate never realized that he could be hurt or killed. On days when he's encountered a dark wizard in the field, exchanged spells, nearly been captured, he feels surprised that he's still alive. Sometimes it feels as if there's a target on his back and on those days, when he makes it back to the Ministry it feels like a miracle. Like luck.

But somehow, through all of that, it just never occurred to Nate that _Brad_ could be killed.

"No sign yet," an auror says, shooting him a concerned glance. Nate nods his head and thanks her. She has blue hair and an eye-patch over her right eye, and though he knows exactly where her cubicle is located in the office, Nate cannot at all remember what her name is. 

"Should the house be burning that fast?" Ray asks as he steps up to Nate's side.

"He'll be fine, Ray," Nate answers the unasked question absently, by wrote.

Staring at the burning house, Nate carefully and methodically considers all of the various protection charms that Brad might have cast to ward off the flames. He thinks about the strengths and weaknesses of each charm, can't remember one that offers a prolonged shield against magical fire that's at all reliable for any length of time. With every passing second, the odds of survival decrease by a disturbing margin.

"Nothing's shaking this blaze," auror Fitzgibbons says. "We've called in curse-breakers. Maybe the wards from the house are keeping it alive."

"Any sign of the coven?" Nate asks.

"No sign of anyone at this moment," Fitzgibbons says. 

The curse-breakers clear a path through the front hallway of the house, the fire arching threateningly overhead as, cautiously, they begin to walk through. "What are we thinking," auror Fitzgibbons says as they look between the upper level, the staircase long since burned past usability, and a door that leads to the cellar. "Up or down?"

Nate sets his wand balancing in his open hand. "Point me, Bradley Colbert," and watches as the wand spins to face the stairs into the basement.

Downstairs they encounter a large blue bubble that prevents them from making it more than halfway down the stairs. It feels cool to the touch, the magic achingly familiar. Ray bounces a fist against the barrier. "What the fuck is this?" 

Nate doesn't need to wonder. "Brad?" 

"Little help?" Brad answers, and Nate doesn't give-in to relief that threatens to overtake him. He stands firm, as close to the barrier as he can manage and crouches so he can see the rest of the basement. 

Squinting, Nate can just barely make out Brad crouching at the very center of the blue sphere. Around him are twelve unconscious witches, and what seems to be a massive upturned cauldron spilling a shimmering turquoise broth onto the stone floor. "Coven's accounted for," he calls back to Fitzgibbons. "Unconscious but they all appear to be alive."

"Let's focus on getting our man out," Fitzgibbons says.

Nate turns back to where Brad is crouching and raises his voice, "What do you need?" 

"I can't drop the ward without the fire reaching us."

"The curse-breakers have cleared a path. I'll pick up the slack on the wards and we'll start shifting you guys out."

It turns out Nate _can't_ pick-up the slack on the spell Brad is holding in place because Brad just _made it up_. "You made it up?" Nate echoes flatly. "You didn't know it would work."

Brad shrugs. "I was fairly confident I knew the outcome. Ninety-seven percent sure."

"Ninety-seven percent."

"Guys, you know I love you both, but can you have this little lover's quarrel when we're not standing in the middle of a burning house? Okay?" Ray says.

By the time they clear the witches out of the house the blue bubble keeping the flames back is barely large enough to shield Brad. He's tired and injured, and he's having trouble focusing. Nate crouches at the foot of the stairs casting every remotely relevant shielding charm he knows.

"We're good," Ray calls down. "Get him up."

"You've got to drop the shield or I can't reach you, Brad," Nate says. "Brad?"

A weak cough and Brad nods. "On three."

There's a horrible split second of a moment between Brad releasing the ward, and Nate grabbing his arm and yanking him beneath the narrow hallway of safety the curse-breakers have made, when Brad is exposed to the fire. But then he's safe and Nate is pulling him up the stairs and back out to fresh air.

"Mungo's, I think," Fitzgibbons says, needlessly. "One of you able to give him a lift? We should really be focusing on this lot," he gestures to the witches laid out on the grass. Still unconscious.

"You go," Nate says to Ray.

"Are you sure?"

Nate nods. "Absolutely. Go. Just… keep me posted." He watches Ray get a solid grip on Brad and raise his wand. There is the ripping cracking sound of apparition, and then both of Nate's friends are gone.

Twenty-two years. Eleven of those he has spent knowing Brad. 

Eleven years of studying together, reading books, practicing spells, and writing essays. Pestering each other with theoreticals: _"So, say you were underwater and you cast serpensortia. Do you suppose you'd automatically summon a sea-snake?"_ and hypotheticals: _"If you had to sleep with someone, or the entire world would end and you'd die, would you pick Filch or his cat?"_ Years of relying on one another, defending one another, trusting in each other, and suddenly Nate realizes how precarious things are. 

Brad is not invincible. 

Half the time the idiot doesn't even know what he's doing. Nate's fine when it's his own neck on the line. When he's the one that has to come up with something ingenious to get them out of a situation. It's not even that he trusts himself over Brad. Not at all.

It's that when it's his own neck on the line, he knows his neck is the only one he's risking. He simply will not tolerate Brad going out and doing something moronic and getting himself killed. Unfortunately, there seems to be no way to prevent Brad from doing this.

His best friend. That's who Brad is to Nate. Nate wants more, _feels_ more, but he can't bring himself to invest so much of himself in one single, tenuous place. 

"You need to take better care of yourself," he says on Brad's first day back at his cubicle.

Brad's bright blue eyes flicker up to meet his, cautious. "You said we'd talk." 

"Yeah, and that's what I have to say," Nate answers. "You take too many risks. Stop trying to be a hero and think like you're part of a team."

Brad's brows crease together. "I _know_ I'm part of a team. Any choice I make is always with a view to protect as many people as I can, and the team is chief among those people."

Nate doesn't have anything he can say to that which wouldn't sound entirely irrational. He purses his lips and focuses on his paperwork.

"Nate, are we okay?"

He doesn't have anything to say to that, either. What can you possibly say after you have realized you have absolutely everything you want within reach, just there, and just as easily you can have all of it taken away from you again? It's silly, because Nate can't stop feeling the way he does, can't just flick a switch and forget it. He's angry with Brad for not valuing himself more but it's not even that, because he knows Brad always takes calculated risks and Nate trusts Brad's abilities.

The trouble is he's being irrational, but even though he knows this he can't stop it. The fear, the concern, the emotion, it's too much for him to process all at once; he doesn't even know where to begin. Turning back to his desk, Nate picks up his quill. "I've been reassigned to partner with Nigel."

"Reassigned," Brad echoes, his tone saying exactly what he thinks of the bullshit Nate's feeding him.

Nate says, "I'm sorry, I just can't…" but there are no clear words to explain what it is he can't do. He tries to say, _"I can't lose you"_ tries to say, _"I don't know what I'm doing"_ or _"I'm terrified."_ He says nothing, and after a moment Brad turns away.

Nate feels awful about it for a few months and then Ray comes in one morning and says, "Ready for shift, partner?"

Nate nods and says, "Just finishing this and we can go." Ray drops into the cubicle beside Nate and spins his chair in circles as Nate finishes checking over some of the papers that have piled up on his desk. "Okay," Nate says, and nods. "That's done, let's head out."

_____________________________________

The thing is, Nate can't think of a single reason why Brad would become a dark wizard.

He's always been strong, magically speaking, and smart. Always keen to learn, always quick to pick things up and so intuitive when it came to spells. Brad was sorted into Slytherin but Nate would be the first one to say that doesn't mean anything. Brad's a pureblood, but Ray had always laughed and said, _"Even if you're a pureblood, once you move to America, I don't think it counts anymore."_

Brad certainly hadn't ever seemed to care about blood. His closest friends were both muggleborn and, if Nate remembers correctly, it hadn't been Brad who had brought that up. For all that he had been a bit standoffish in school, never trying to fit in or make friends, he'd had a place. He had friends.

When they'd become aurors together Brad had excelled. He'd always had sharp instincts bordering on the prophetic, no matter how often he spoke out about Divination as a teachable art. Brad had a good rapport with everyone he worked with, had the utmost respect for Robards and, in turn, Robards had been fond of him.

Nate is missing two whole years, though, between Brad leaving the department and Nate's remembering that he ever had a friend in Slytherin house. Someone he had maybe had a crush on growing up. Someone he's fairly certain he would have died for and, in truth, still _would_ die for. Happily.

The magical effort taken to remove Brad from absolutely everyone's memory is daunting. There has to be a very good reason for it and Nate's worry is that there _is_ and he already knows it. Though he tries to think of other possibilities he comes up with nothing. So instead he starts to wonder why he is different.

Why, out of all of the people who ever knew Brad, _Nate_ is the only one who gets to remember.

Minerva McGonagall has no recollection of a student named Bradley Colbert. She consults her register of alumni and says, "That is very strange but not, I think, irregular," then she nods to herself and closes the tome. "Yes, I believe I understand what has happened."

"What?" Nate asks, but she won't say.

She pours out the tea and makes him sit and tell her about what he and Ray have been doing. About people he's bumped into and chatted with from school and what they'd been up to. About why it has been so long since he has come to visit. Finally, Nate says, "There's something I've been struggling with."

The Headmistress smiles. "I am, as they say, all ears, Mister Fick." Above, in a portrait hanging among the many faces of previous headmasters and mistresses, a white-haired figure with half-moon spectacles winks down at him. Nate smiles a little back but the knot in his stomach is twisting and untwisting too much for him to feel eased.

"I understand that memory modification cannot be undone. That the charm only gets stronger the longer it's left in place." He licks his lips, tries to puzzle it out. "It works by wiping the target's memories clean, so those memories aren't actually there anymore. Almost impossible to recover them in any way, and certainly never completely."

"Yes," she says. "That's very true."

"How can a memory charm break, then?" 

She sips her tea. "It cannot." 

That's all she says, but her gaze is focused and she keeps looking at him, and Nate understands that he is supposed to reason this out for himself to some degree. The answer seems obvious but also, equally, very wrong. "So, if a memory charm breaks, it's not so much that it broke as that it was never really in place?"

"Hm," she says. "There are some things that cannot ever be truly forgotten. Some may try and, for a time, perhaps they might even believe that they have succeeded. But those memories will always linger, fighting the charm."

There is a part of him that already understands what the headmistress means, but Nate needs to hear it. Cannot quite bring himself to believe. "Strong familial bonds?"

"Perhaps. A mother may be incapable of ever wholly forgetting her child." McGonagall tips her head like she's considering, lets her eyes drift slowly back around to Nate as she says, "Strong bonds create impervious memories."

Nate nods. "Like a friend."

"A friend," she says. "Or a soul mate. There is no stronger bond than that, would you agree?"

Hypothetically, Nate _would_ agree. But that's all that is. Hypothetical. Soul mates are a sort of romantic view of history and certainly the term has no bearing in reality. It would be entirely preposterous, wholly unfeasible. Except…

Except Nate remembers Brad at eleven, awkward and elven and ever so proud of the knowledge he had been able to impart about Hogwarts all of which, he had ruefully admitted, had been gleaned from a tattered copy of Hogwarts: A History, which he had handed over to Nate who had been so desperately curious about everything. _"Is the food made of magic, do you think?"_  
 __  
"It's made by house elves," Brad had said. _"You better take this. You're hopeless."_  
 _  
"I just want to understand,"_ Nate remembers saying as he'd accepted the book.

There had always been a draw between them, a pull: Thirteen and inseparable; sixteen and staring at Brad as he grinned and held the House Cup aloft and laughed; twenty, and standing back-to-back against a swarm of acromantulas; twenty-two and a kiss. 

"Why would anyone want to forget that sort of bond?" Nate finds himself wondering aloud.

"No one ever really wants to forget a love for the ages," Minerva says. "Unless they believe there is nothing there to remember. Something that might only cause them pain."

At the front of the school Nate shrinks his broomstick and stows it in his pocket. He doesn't want to fly home or back to the Ministry. His thoughts are circling, remembering with a twist of guilt the way he had avoided Brad. Twenty-two and an explosion that leveled a three-story manse; twenty-two and a hasty retreat before anything else could go crumbling down around him; twenty-two, and an idiot.

He walks all the way down to Hogsmeade and isn't entirely surprised to see Brad standing there in front of Honeydukes, his dark blue robes shifting in the cold wind, the collar of his cloak turned up against the chill. Nate says, "How did you know I would be here?" He sounds resigned even to his own ears.

"How can I know anything?" Brad asks. "It's not like you talk to me at all."

Nate raises his eyebrows in a challenge. "I talk to you, Brad. I tell you about my day, and the shit I saw and did. I tell you about work and about Ray. It's more than you ever say to me."

Brad holds out his hand. There is a tiny round orb resting in the center of his palm. Nate frowns at it, can sense a pulse of magic from it, which stops him from reaching out and examining it any closer. "It's a portkey," Brad explains. "I need you to trust me."

Nate wants to be angry. He wants to keep arguing because he's frustrated and feels confused and doesn't know what any of this means anymore. Instead, he reaches out and takes Brad's hand and there is that tug at the very center of his gut that, despite great effort, he has never quite been able to grow accustomed to.

When he opens his eyes again he's standing in Saint Mungo's. Tony is looking at him with narrowed eyes. "Wait a minute," he says. "Brad, man, what the fuck are you doing?"

Brad ignores the other man, striding through the hall and Nate follows because Brad asked him to. They walk almost to the end of the hall, stopping by a door on the right hand side, which Brad opens after a gentle tap. Inside, there is a short, brown haired man who bobs a half-bow at Brad despite being confined to a white hospital cot. He says, "Thank-you so much, again. I have no words. Just, thank-you."

Nate doesn't say anything at all but he realizes with a shock that he knows this man: the store clerk from Slug and Jiggers. "This wizard here saved my life, he did," the clerk says, smiling wide and pointing at Brad. 

"Not the store, though," Brad says wryly.

The clerk bobs his head. "Well. Nobody's perfect. Just grateful to be pain-free, is all."

"Why did you show me that?" Nate demands once they have left the room. The store clerk had been incapable or unwilling to say anything beyond 'thank-you' to Brad, kept insisting that Brad had been the one to finally break the curse. 

"I remember you always needed proof before you would believe anything." 

"You haven't proven anything, Brad," Nate says. "It's just as likely that he's been befuddled. You've already demonstrated your ability with _memory modification_."

Brad raises his pale eyebrows. "That wasn't me." 

"You need to explain this," Nate demands. "Now."

Brad takes his hand and apparates them back to Nate's place. Nate wants to be pissed at that, too, but he can't. He thinks maybe it's almost a relief to be some place that's familiar. 

"You thought I was a dark wizard?" Brad asks the moment they arrive. "Really?"

"How was I supposed to know any better?"

"You thought I was a _dark wizard_ and you didn't _arrest_ me?"

"This isn't about me! What the fuck is going on here, Brad? Because you have _no idea_ what it's like to want something and do _whatever_ you have to in order to have it. Even if you _know_ it's wrong. Even if it's going to get you in trouble, and possibly endanger people's _lives_ …"

Brad is unmoved. "You tried to think of a reason why it would be important for people to not know who I am and all you could come up with after _years_ of knowing me was _dark wizard_?"

Nate throws his hands up. "Tell me what it is, then!"

"I'm a fucking _Unspeakable_ , Nate!"

"Oh," Nate says, slumps a little and says again, "Oh."

It takes a moment but despite the wave of what felt like understanding, Nate is still confused. "No," he says. "No, that's not right. They don't obliviate everyone you ever knew when you join the Department of Mysteries!"

Brad smirks that wry amused little smirk that Nate vaguely remembers liking at one time. At this precise moment he hates it very much indeed. "Know a lot about what happens in the Department of Mysteries, do you?"

Nate sneers. "Well, apparently I've been _fucking_ an Unspeakable for three months."

"Hey." Brad wraps a hand around the back of Nate's neck and says, quietly, "Ease off."

Nate breathes and nods. "You need to explain this to me, because I don't understand."

"I can't explain all of it," Brad says. "Even if I could, we'd be here for days, but I'll tell you what I can." He doesn't move them toward the chairs, or suggest they go some place where they can sit. He stands there, right in Nate's space, matching Nate's gaze as he begins, "Apparently, the Department had me down on the list since I joined the Auror program. After the explosion at Cledyff, and the modified wards I put up, I was approached and offered a position." Nate narrows his eyes, but Brad pushes on. "I turned them down."

He sighs, feels a growing sense of resignation because he can see now. He is beginning to understand how they got to this point and he's an idiot. "What changed?"

The look Brad flashes at him says very clearly and very succinctly: _'you did'_.

Out loud, Brad says, "You can't tell me that things weren't different. I don't know what we became, but we definitely stopped being friends."

"I was worried," Nate defends. "Maybe a little confused."

"Whatever it was, it lasted long enough that I knew it was time for me to move on. So, the next time they offered, I took the job."

Nate nods, and for a moment it not only makes sense but sounds acceptable. He can admit that he was more than a little in the wrong, and he can accept that Brad made choices based on Nate's attitude that had consequences for the both of them.

Then, of course, Nate remembers the most salient point. "They _wiped our memories_ , Brad."

In answer, Brad draws an ornate pocket watch from his cloak. It is silver with intricate, swirling designs carved into the surface. When he clicks it open the interior of the watch holds a complicated series of dials and archaic markings. On the inside cover is a finely scripted etching: "Semper fidelis". 

As Nate peers at the watch he realizes what it is. "A time turner?"

"There aren't many Unspeakables, so we have more than one function, but generally we're attached to specific rooms in the Department, and each of those rooms has different rules as much to protect the people who work there as everyone else. My post is the Time room. Most Unspeakables are kept as secret as possible, regardless. If a Dark Lord knew who we were and could find us easily, target our weak points, then…"

"I get it." Nate swallows thickly. He doesn't want to think about that.

Brad catches his eye, holds his gaze as he continues, "It also helps when I use the time turner to have fewer people to look out for, in case they spot me somewhere and recognize me through the glamours. When I'm allowed the glamours." He shrugs. "It's complicated."

"So," Nate says. "You gave up everything and everyone because of me?"

Clicking the watch closed, Brad returns it to his pocket. "I have friends. Tony is, believe it or not, among my closest. It helps that we work together, I suppose. And that he's not a goat-fucking moron. I moved on because I couldn't stay where I was. For you, being an auror was a gateway to political life, following Kingsley's path or something. I don't want anything beyond this, though. The challenge, the struggle, the fight, that's what I want. Being an auror wasn't enough."

Nate closes his eyes. He wonders, if he hadn't been a coward back then, worried about losing something before he even had it, if Brad would have realized so soon that he wasn't happy in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. If maybe they might have had a few more years tracking down dark witches and wizards before Brad sought something else, higher risk, greater challenge.

"I wanted you" Nate says. "Even then, I wanted you."

Brad glances at him, oddly shy. "That only made it worse."

Nate licks his lips. "What about Ray?"

"What about Ray?" Brad asks, his brows pinching together. 

Nate shakes his head, the anger coming back in a wave. "He was your _best friend_ , Brad! You just gave him up? He was _loyal_ and you didn't even hesitate to cut him loose?"

Brad grinning is not at all the answer he expected following his outburst. Then again, neither is Brad's admittance that, "Ray hasn't forgotten anything, Nate. He's on my list."

"Your list?"

"If we're entirely isolated, that's not safe for us either. Working with the sort of magic we handle, traveling to the places we do, we need to be able to have something solid. Something grounding. Every Unspeakable has a list, and they can choose people to exempt from the modification charms."

"So, you can forget me, but not Ray?"

"I never forgot you," Brad says. "I just let _you_ forget me _._ Honestly, I didn't think you'd miss it. I thought things might be easier. You got to walk through the Ministry and not see me, not think about me, not wonder about 'what ifs' or any of that. I couldn't do that."

"But then I remembered."

"Apparently." Here, Brad looks uncertain and strangely guilty. "It shouldn't have happened. I apologize. At first, we thought Ray was just exaggerating shit, like he does."

"We?"

"Tony and I. He's my partner."

Nate smiles ruefully. "I thought he was one of your evil henchmen."

"Yeah, he told me that." Brad shakes his head. "Tony thought he'd feel you out then recast the charm. But then you flat out refused and I thought, maybe you wanted to remember. So…"

"So you 'bumped' into me," Nate finishes. 

"I figured you would ask me about it sooner. I was purposely vague because I thought, eventually, you'd get irritated and demand answers."

"You knew I remembered?"

"I know when you're trying to bullshit someone, Nate," Brad says with a smile.

Nate doesn't know what to do with all of this. He's relieved and hurt, he's angry and happy and he's fairly certain he is going to kill Ray very slowly, but mostly he can't let go. Doesn't want to let go. Not again. "I don't know what to say to this." 

Brad nods and steps back. "I'm sorry."

"No," he says, his hands reaching out automatically, fisting around Brad's robes. "You're not fucking leaving this apartment, _do you understand me_?"

Brad hesitates, looks like he isn't certain what Nate wants, but intends to follow the order regardless. He says, "Yes."

"I don't know what to think, or how to begin processing this, but I'm not letting you go, and you're not leaving me. Not again."

"Understood," Brad says, and then tips his head into Nate's kiss. 

Nate thinks that it should feel different somehow, now that there are fewer secrets between them. It doesn't, it feels just like it always has, and it's a relief, something steady and reliable, something consistent and grounding. "You better put my name on that list, Brad." 

Brad huffs. "First thing tomorrow," he agrees. He pulls Nate back toward him, presses their mouthes together for a moment then takes a shuddering breath. "How did you remember?"

Nate quirks his lips up. "I have a theory."

"A theory?" Brad asks. "Are you going to tell me?"

Smiling, Nate kisses Brad again, slow and deep and possessive. He thinks: _"This, this is the start of something. The restart of something."_ He says, "It's too soon to be sure," but feels like maybe he's lying.

Like maybe he's always known what they were. Like there was never any doubt.

_____________________________________

Nate's first kiss, the first one that counted, anyway, is also his last; for a while, at least.

It's dark and too quiet and he's crouching in the middle of a landscaped garden, using a perfectly rounded shrub as cover. His mind is running through spells, curses, counter-curses, blocks and charms. Even though he knows that he is not alone in the darkness it feels as if he is.

There is the briefest brush of magic along his senses, familiar enough that he doesn't even shift as Brad creeps up beside him, long legs bent, body hunched forward as he moves. He comes to a stop by a bush just to the right of where Nate is waiting. With a few quick gestures he indicates the locations of the other aurors, and then points to his destination. 

Apparently, Brad is going in through the front door. 

That's just the sort of shit Brad always pulls.

Inside the sprawling three story manse is a coven of witches practicing the Dark Arts. They've killed four wizards and two witches, and the Aurors who have been investigating them still have not established a final count of murdered muggles. They are strong enough that three other Auror teams have been brought in as back up, and Brad has apparently volunteered to go ahead and ring the doorbell.

He looks over at Nate, his blue eyes pale and shining in the light of the full moon. Nate holds his gaze as long as he can but then he blinks, and when his eyes open again Brad is rising to his feet, stepping away from the bush. 

Without thinking Nate reaches out, snagging the corner of Brad's sleeve and holding fast. The look he receives in return is curious, puzzled, like Brad expects that Nate might actually have a good reason for the delay. 

He doesn't. There's no reason at all except that he simply cannot seem to let go.

Brad stares at him, the frown slowly easing off his face, morphing into something tentative, cautious. He shifts and Nate loses his grip, lets his suddenly lax hand drop back to his side as Brad comes closer, still crouching, until they are inches apart.

He pauses, as if he thinks Nate might go somewhere and when Nate doesn't move at all, Brad does, closing the last bit of distance between them until their mouthes are pressed together. Warm and soft, and Nate thinks it isn't enough and he lets his lips part for Brad, opens himself up to the kiss.

It's still not enough.

He cups the back of Brad's head and his mind provides a list of a hundred different reasons why they shouldn't be doing this. Why this is insane, inappropriate, ill-advised. Nate still can't bring himself to let go.

They've known each other since the very first day of school. Feuded like a pair of Medieval Knights, competed like the precocious students they were, bickered like an old married couple, and been the best of friends throughout. Nate traces back through all the years he's known Brad, thinks about that moment on the Quidditch pitch, hovering in the air and staring and struggling for breath like there was just no oxygen left in the world as Brad turned a full beaming grin in his direction, sweat matting his blond hair, exertion making him glow as he held the still fluttering snitch above his head.

Brad was so much a part of his life by then that Nate had never realized what it was he had been feeling. How much things had changed. He realizes now.

Pulling back, he fixes his robes and drags his thoughts into focus. "We'll talk about this after the coven has been subdued," he whispers. Brad steps back, his face smoothing out into a carefully neutral expression. He nods once, quick and sharp, then turns and steps away from the garden.

Nate watches him go and giddy, realizes is his first crush, his first love. The kiss that matters, unlike his first kiss, with Elsie Matthews in the Astrony Tower. He thinks: "Never forget this." The part of his brain still running through the protection charms supplies a translation with ease: _noli unquam oblivisci_. He watches Brad adjust his cloak and begin striding toward the front steps. Nate's body is thrumming with possibility, a lightheaded part of him wondering if he can really have this.

He thinks: "Please don't die." 

_…placere non mori…_


End file.
